They believed her. They actually thought she was dancing around the marigolds because she liked marigolds. This made Macey burst out laughing and think of Monday, and think of Austin in school on Monday.

As soon as they got home, she e-mailed Lindsay. “Linz,” she typed, because this was Lindsay’s e-mail address, “I went to Mickey D’s with Aus. Shared a large fry. Used the same squirt of ketchup. Is this romance or what?”

Lindsay checked her mail constantly, crushed and grieving if there were not lots of communications, so she answered an hour later. “No. It is not romance. You must improve your standards. There’s a wonderful article in Seventeen I could download and e-mail Aus. Then he’d have some clues on how to date.”

Luckily there was time to respond to this. “Don’t even think about it, Linz. Death comes to those who interfere in other people’s love lives.”

Then she phoned Grace and they talked for a while about love lives and how incredibly wonderful it was that she, Macey Clare, possessed one.

She felt as warm and soft as a cake just out of the oven.

There was a boy next door and he was perfect.

Austin called his mother.

She could not have been more hostile and disagreeable.

He felt bludgeoned by her anger.

Aus tried not to be hostile back. The giddy pleasure of being with Macey evaporated. When other topics failed, he said, “Mom, I need to know more about that fire. In 1959.”

“Oh, Austin!” she said. “I was little, okay? I don’t know the facts. Ask Macey’s mother.”

“She won’t talk about it. I need you to tell me what you think happened.”

“Okay, fine!” she snapped. “Somebody on Shell Road decided enough was enough. They didn’t want a black man living there. They torched the place.”

Every one of his worries returned, dark and terrible. He could not believe he had actually encouraged Macey to return to the barn fire. He could not believe he had jumped in to help her get closer to the facts. He said sadly, “Was it Grandfather?”

“Henry Fent is discussing this with you?” said his mother, anger replaced by astonishment. She often referred to her father by name, as if they were not related.

“No, Mom. He told me to stop looking into it.”

There was a long pause. His mother said, “It doesn’t matter whether or not Henry Fent set that fire. He’s guilty.”

“What do you mean?” said Austin. “In a court of law is what I mean.”

“I mean in a court of God,” said his mother.

Austin was facing the window as he spoke, and beyond him stretched sea and sky, darkening into night, no star and no comet visible. A court of God? Where, and what, was that?